Unrequited
by Behindthebook08
Summary: Few know just how much damage a simple congratulatory letter can do. (Hermione/Minerva unrequited) (Hermione/Harry Friendship) (T-rating for language and alluded to clinical depression)


**A/N: A short simple one-shot (Emphasis on the short!) that fluttered into my head this afternoon. Having one of those days, and just couldn't muster the wonderful fluffy'ness which Eighteen Again's most recent chapter requires. Hopefully this will get the angst out of my system. I hope you like it, for what that's worth.**

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Harry walked soundlessly into silent room, treading carefully as not to startle the woman in the far corner. It was nearly eight o'clock at night, and the fact that she had yet to return home, gave testimony to her scattered state-of-mind. She sat with her face completely hidden from view, riotous curls swept in front of her, only blocked from her eyes by the delicate fingers she had set against each temple.

As he approached, he gained a glimpse of the girl. A carefully guarded bit of parchment sat on the desk before her, emerald ink neatly scripted across the page. Her eyes were closed lightly, exhausted circles marring her pale complexion, and a soft frown lay across her face.

"Hermione?" He said softly, but she didn't look up from the parchment, "Hermione, are you alright?"

She shook her head slightly, glancing up at her oldest friend with unfocused eyes, "What? Oh, Harry, yes, I'm—I'm fine."

After 18 years, he knew her every expression and could read her every stutter. He knew of the poison which seemed to radiate through every cell of her advanced mind, and he knew that it was only tampered by the books she kept firmly within her grasp at all times, and the knowledge which she seemed to continually seek.

She quickly swiped her wand across the chestnut desk, banishing the work from her day into a lower drawer. She then picked up the parchment which she'd been reading, carefully stashing it in the pocket of her robes. "What's happened?" He asked quietly, "You seem upset."

"No, no, not at all," She responded automatically, her body still turned away from his and her eyes dutifully avoiding his own. "I'm just slightly surprised by a letter I received today."

It took him a moment to piece together the hints she had thrown his way, but then he looked up at her quickly, his eyes soft and sad, "Oh Hermione, really? Still? It's been nearly a year since she's contacted you."

Hermione shook her head quickly, "I'm aware, Harry. I know how long it's been."

"Why did she write?"

Hermione frowned slightly, "She heard about my completed Charms mastery and wanted to congratulate me. It was just a short note."

Harry reached out, wrapping a soft hand around hers, "I'm sorry Hermione," he said quietly.

She just shook her head again, her eyes glancing towards the ceiling, "It's fine, really. I'm a grown woman at this point; I should have gotten past all of this years ago. It was very kind of her to write."

"Are you going to reply?"

Hermione shook her head quickly, "There wouldn't be a point, she wouldn't respond."

"She might," Harry tried quietly, but Hermione shut him down quickly.

"No Harry—she wouldn't. You and I both know that. It's been nearly 10 years since Hogwarts, 8 since I finished my Transfiguration mastery. I _tried_ to become a friend—I tried to correspond, she didn't _want that._" Hermione ran a shaking hand through her hair, "This ridiculous _crush _is terrible enough, I won't allow myself to become some crazed stalker."

"I think that 12 years makes this a bit more than a _crush_, Hermione. You love her."

Hermione turned towards Harry quickly, her eyes flashing, "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if it's a crush, an obsession, an infatuation, or true _fucking _love. She doesn't feel the same, so it doesn't matter."

"But maybe if you_ told _her…"

"She's a professor, Harry. She was _my_ professor. She is the most respectable woman in the entirety of England, and she will_ never_ look at me that way."

"I'm sorry, I was just trying—"

"I _know_ you're just trying to help, Harry. But you do this _every time _she writes me," Hermione scolded, "That's not helping."

"That's because _every time _she writes, you fall into a spiraling depression which culminates with you crying into a pitcher of firewhiskey at two o'clock in the morning."

Hermione glanced towards her feet, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I'm trying Harry, really I am. But you do understand why I can't tell her, don't you?"

Harry nodded lightly, "I just don't feel like anything could hurt at this point."

"I just—I couldn't take that Harry, not now."

He sighed to himself, knowing she was right, knowing what a rejection would do to the brilliant woman's already fragile psyche. Willing some measure of strength to his voice, he pasted on a small smile, "So, you coming home?"

She nodded softly, nervously shuffling papers about her desk, "I've got a few things to finish," she whispered, "I'll be home soon."

Harry nodded, concern evident in his eyes. "If you need anything—"

"I know."

Harry walked slowly from the room, glancing over his shoulder as he left. She had settled back into the desk, a quill gently poised between her fingers and a bottle of sapphire ink laid open before her.

She sighed heavily as she stared at the blank parchment, before setting her quill to it. Penning a letter, like dozens before it, a letter which would never be sent, but which would relieve some of the weight which sat on the young woman's chest.

_My dearest Minerva,_

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**Thank you for reading, and please consider shooting me a review to tell me what you thought.  
**


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